Company Man (6 page)

Eddie sat down in front of Nick's computer as if it were his own and pecked at the keyboard with two fingers. He was surprisingly adept for someone who'd never learned how to type. As he navigated through the corporate intranet to the Corporate Security area, he said, “The boys in the guard booth at your little concentration camp were more than happy to help out, of course.”

“You're talking about Fenwicke Estates.” Eddie smelled of cigarettes and Brut, the cologne he'd worn back in high school. Nick didn't even know they still made Brut.

“Now,
they've
got a nice setup there—high-definition, high-res Sony digital video cams positioned at the entrance and exit. Backlight compensation. Thirty frames a second. The cops didn't even ask to look at their hard-disk recorder, know that?”

“Like you said.”

“Shit, they didn't even do the bare minimum, for appearances' sake. Okay.” A color photo appeared on the monitor of a lanky, bespectacled figure. Eddie clicked the mouse a few times, zooming in on the figure. He was a man of around sixty with a deeply creased face, a small, tight mouth, close-cropped gray hair, eyes grotesquely magnified by the lenses of heavy-framed black glasses. Nick's heart began to thud. A few more mouse clicks, and the man's grim face took up
most of the screen. The resolution wasn't bad. The man's face was clearly visible.

“Recognize him?” Eddie said.

“No.”

“Well, he knows who you are.”

“No doubt. What, did he just walk through? Some security.”

“Climbed the fence in the wooded section, actually. Cameras there get triggered by motion sensors. No alarms there—they'd get way too many false alarms with all the animals and shit—but cameras up the wazoo.”

“Great. Who is he?”

“His name is Andrew Stadler.”

Nick shrugged. He'd never heard the name.

“I narrowed it down by laid-off male employees in their fifties or older, especially with outplacement irregularities. Man, I spent most of the morning looking at mug shots. My eyes are crossing. But hey, that's why I get the big bucks, right?”

Eddie double-clicked the mouse, and another photo appeared on a split screen beside the surveillance image. It was the same man, a little younger: the same heavy black glasses with the ogling eyes, the same slit of a mouth. Under this photograph was the name ANDREW M. STADLER and a Social Security number, a date of birth, a Stratton employee number, a date of hire.

Nick asked, “Laid off?”

“Yes and no. They sat him down for the layoff meeting and he quit. You know, said, ‘After all I've done for this company?' and ‘Fuck you,' and like that.”

Nick shook his head. “Never even seen the guy before.”

“Spend a lot of time at the model shop?”

The model shop was where a small crew of workers—metal-benders, solderers, woodworkers—built prototypes of new Stratton products, in editions of one or two or three, from specs drawn up by the designers. The model-shop employees tended to be odd sorts, Nick had always thought. They'd all done time on the factory floor, bending metal, and
they were good with their hands. They also tended to be loners and perfectionists.

“Andrew Stadler,” Nick said, listening to the sound of the name, scanning the data on the man's file. “He was with the company thirty-five, thirty-six years.”

“Yep. Started as an assembler on the old vertical-file-cabinet line, became a welder. Then he became a specialist level two—worked by himself in the chair plant repairing the returns. Refused to work on any of the progressive build lines because, he said, he hated listening to other people's music. Kept getting into fights with his floor supervisor. They learned to leave him alone and let him do his work. When there was an opening in the model shop five years ago, he put in for it, and they were glad to get rid of him.” With another couple of clicks, Eddie brought up Stadler's employee reviews. Nick leaned closer to read the small type. “What's this about hospitalization?”

Eddie swiveled around in Nick's chair and looked up, his half-wild eyes staring. “He's a fucking nutcase, buddy. A brainiac and a maniac. The guy's been in and out of the locked ward at County Medical.”

“Jesus. For what?”

“Schizophrenia. Every couple of years he stops taking his meds.”

Nick let his breath out slowly.

“Okay, Nick, now here's the scary part. I put in a call to the Fenwick PD. Something like fifteen years ago, Stadler was questioned in the possible murder of an entire family that lived across the street.”

Nick felt a sudden chill. “What does that mean?”

“Family called Stroup, neighbors, used to hire this guy to do repairs, odd jobs. Mister Fix-It—guy's a mechanical genius, could fix anything. Maybe they got into some kinda fight, maybe they looked at him wrong, who knows, but one night there's a gas leak in their basement, something sets it off, whole house blows.”

“Jesus.”

“Never proven if the whole thing was an accident or this
wacko did it, but the cops suspected he did. Never could prove it, though. Had to let him go—no evidence. Just strong suspicion. Nick, this guy Stadler is one dangerous motherfucker. And I'll tell you something else you're not going to want to hear. This fruitcake's got a gun.”

“What?”

“There's an old safety inspection certificate in his name—found it in the county records. Like twenty years old. And no record of sale, which means he's still got it.”

“Jesus. Get a restraining order.”

Eddie made a soft, dismissive
pfft
sound. “Come on, man, TROs are bullshit. Piece of paper.”

“But if he tries to go on my property again—”

“You can get him arrested for
trespassing,
man. Not for stalking. Big fucking deal. You think that's going to stop a goddamned psychopath? Guy who eviscerated your goddamned dog? Guy who hears voices, wears a tinfoil hat?”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie. We got a time-stamped image of this nut climbing the fence right around the time my dog got killed. The cops got a knife that might have prints on it. They got enough to charge the guy with my dog's death.”

“Yeah, and what have they done, right? They haven't done shit.”

“So how do we make them take action?”

“I don't know, man. Got to apply some serious pressure. But they're going to be busy covering their big fat asses, so they're not exactly going to snap to. I say we scare the shit out of this loon first. Once the police get involved in any real way, we gotta keep hands off Stadler. But in the meantime, we got to make sure you and your family are safe.”

Nick considered for a moment. “All right. But don't do anything that'll compromise me in any way. So no getting rough with him. I just want the fucker locked up somewhere.”

“Fine with me. I'll track the guy down. Meantime, my man Freddie's going over to your house this afternoon to get started on the new system. I'm having him put a rush on it.”

Nick glanced at his watch. He had to head over to the monthly meeting of the Compensation Committee. “Great.”

“And hey, if all else fails, remember my little loaner.”

Nick lowered his voice, aware that Marjorie was at her desk on the other side of the partition and might be able to hear their voices. “I don't have a permit, Eddie.”

Eddie gave a slow shake of his head. “Permit? Come on, man. You know how long it takes to go through the hoops, do all the paperwork? You can't wait that long. Look, carrying an unlicensed weapon is a misdemeanor, okay? A hundred-buck fine. And that's if you get caught. Which you won't, because you won't have to use it. Isn't that worth it to protect your family from that sick fuck? A hundred bucks?”

“All right. Get out of here—I need to check my e-mail, and then I've got three meetings stacked up.”

Eddie rose. “Man, you got some fancy computer equipment up here. I could use some monitors like this for my department.”

“Not up to me,” Nick said. “I'm just a figurehead.”

Scott McNally lived in a decent-sized, but perfectly ordinary, house in the Forest Hills section of Fenwick where many of the Stratton execs lived. A successful accountant could have lived here. It was a generic white colonial with green shutters, a two-car garage, a rec room, a finished basement. It was decorated generically too. Everything—the dining room set, the couches and chairs and rugs—seemed to have been bought all at once, at the same mid-priced home-furnishings store. Obviously Eden, Scott's trophy wife, didn't share Laura's interest in design.

Nick and Laura had talked about Scott's house once. He admired the fact that Scott, who was loaded from his McKinsey days, didn't try to show it off like so many financial types. Money to Scott wasn't something you spent. It was like frequent-flyer miles you never use. Still, Nick couldn't put his finger on what felt funny about Scott's house until Laura pointed out that it looked somehow
temporary,
like those short-term furnished corporate apartments.

As soon as they arrived, the kids dispersed, Julia to the bedroom of one of Scott's twin twelve-year-old daughters, and Lucas to the rec room to sit by himself and watch TV. Scott was manning the immense, stainless-steel charcoal grill, the only remotely expensive thing he seemed to own. He was wearing a black barbecue apron with a yellow haz
ard sign on the front of it that said
DANGER MEN COOKING
, and a matching
DANGER MEN COOKING
baseball cap.

“How's it going?” Nick said as they stood in the smoke.

“Can't complain,” Scott said. “Who'd listen?”

“Think that grill's big enough?”

“A cooking surface of eight hundred and eighty square inches, big enough to burn sixty-four burgers at once. Because you just never know.” He shook his head. “That's the last time I let Eden go shopping at Home Depot.”

“How
is
Eden these days?”

“The same, only more so. She's become a real fitness nut. If it were up to her, we'd be feasting on texturized tofu, spirulina, and barley green juice. Her latest obsession is this Advanced Pilates course she's taking. I don't quite get how that works. Does it keep getting more advanced? Can you do graduate work in Pilates, end up with a doctorate?”

“Well, she looks great.”

“Just don't call her arm candy. She'd rather be thought of as arm tempeh.” Scott checked that all the knobs were set to high. “You know, I'm always kind of embarrassed when you come over. It's like the feudal lord leaving his castle to go visit the peasants in their hovels. We should be roasting a boar, really. Maybe a stag.” He looked at Nick. “What would you like to drink? A flagon of mead, my liege?”

“A beer would do it.”

Scott turned and began shouting to his portly nine-year-old son, who was sitting by himself on the back porch making immense bubbles using a strange gadget, a long pole with a cloth strap dangling off it. “Spencer! Spencer, will you get over here, please?”

“Aww!” Spencer whined.

“Right now!” Scott shouted. Lowering his voice a bit, he said, “Eden can't wait until he's old enough to send to Andover.”

“Not you, though.”

“I barely notice the kid,” he said with a shrug. If Nick didn't know Scott better, he wouldn't realize Scott was kidding, doing his usual shtick. When his son was within speak
ing range, he said, “Spencer, could you please get Mr. Conover one of those brown bottles of beer?” To Nick he said, “You'll love this beer. It's a Belgian Abbey ale that's brewed in upstate New York.”

“Got any Miller?”

“Ah, the Champagne of Beers. What I'd like to find is the beer of champagnes. I think Eden bought some Grolsch, if that'll work.”

“Sure.”

“Spencer, look for the green bottles that have the funny metal tops with the rubber stoppers on them, got it?”

“Dad, it's not supposed to be good for you to eat barbecued meats.” Spencer folded his arms across his chest. “Do you know that barbecuing at high heat can create polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which are known to be mutagens?”

Nick stared at the kid. How the hell do you learn to
pronounce
that stuff?

“Now, that's where you're wrong, son,” said Scott. “They
used
to think that aromatic hydrocarbons were bad. Now they know that they're the best thing for you. What do they teach you in school, anyway?”

Spencer looked stymied, but only momentarily. “Don't say I didn't warn you if you get cancer later in life.”

“I'll be dead by then, son.”

“But Dad—”

“Okay, kid, so here's your burger,” Scott said blithely, holding up one of the raw patties. “Go fetch yourself a bun and some ketchup, okay? So instead of cancer, you'll get salmonella and
E. coli
bacteria. Mad cow too, if you're really lucky.”

Spencer seemed to get his father's sense of humor but wouldn't let on. “But I thought
E. coli
naturally colonizes the human intestine,” he said.

“You don't stop, do you? Go play in traffic. But first get Mr. Conover his beer.”

The boy trudged reluctantly away.

Scott chuckled. “Kids these days.”

“Impressive,” was all Nick could think to say.

“I'm sorry you don't want to try this Belgian ale,” Scott said. “I discovered it at that dude ranch in Arizona I went to last month with my old college buddies, remember?”

“You didn't exactly rave about the place.”

“Ever smell a horse up close? Anyway, I liked the beer.”

“So, Spencer's a little scary, huh?”

“I guess. We first had an inkling of that when he was three and he started composing haiku using the letters from his alphabet soup.”

“I don't think you appreciate how cooperative he is. If I'd asked Luke to go fetch me a beer he would have ripped my face off.”

“Tough age. By the time Spencer turns sixteen we'll probably see him just once a year, at Christmas. But yeah, he's usually well behaved, and he's into math just like his dad. Of course, later, when he turns into Jeff Dahmer, we'll discover the dissected remains of dogs and cats in the backyard.” He started to chuckle, and then his face fell. “Oh, shit, Nick, I forgot about your dog. I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I can't believe I said that.”

“You might want to turn the burgers. They're burning.”

“Oh, right.” He wrestled with a big metal spatula. “Nick, the cops have any idea who did it?”

Nick hesitated, then shook his head. “They're guessing it's a downsized employee. But I could've told 'em that.”

“That narrows it down to five thousand and sixty-seven. You don't have a security system?”

“Not good enough, obviously. I mean, we're in a gated community.”

“Jesus, that could happen to us too.”

“Thanks for being so sensitive.”

“No, I mean—sorry, but as the CFO I'm just as responsible as you are for the layoffs, and—God, you must be spooked as shit.”

“Of course I am. But most of all I'm fucking pissed off.”

“The cops aren't going to do anything, are they?”

“They all know someone we laid off. Alarm goes off at
my house, they're not going to get off their stools at Dunkin' Donuts.”

Spencer ran across the lawn with a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass in the other. “Here you go, Mr. Conover,” he said, handing the beer and glass to Nick.

“Thanks, Spencer.” Nick set down the glass and struggled with the complicated top of the Grolsch. He'd actually never had a bottle of the stuff outside of a bar, where they poured it for you.

Spencer circled his pudgy little arms around his dad's waist. Scott reached out his free hand and grabbed his son back, made a grunting sound. “Hey, sweetie,” he said. His face was red from the heat, and he blinked the smoke out of his eyes.

“Hey, Dad.”

Nick smiled. So Spencer was a little kid, too, not just a
Jeopardy
champ.

“Shit,” Scott said, as one of his burgers slipped through the grate and into the fire.

“Do this often?”

“It's my only hobby. Understand, my idea of a good time is filling out my tax return using Roman numerals.” He fiddled some more with the metal spatula. “Shit,” he said again, as another burger dropped into the flames. “You like well done?”